


Decayed

by EdgeLaur



Series: Dead Soldiers [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Canonical Character Death, Choking, M/M, Minor Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Tags to be added as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:26:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7603324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLaur/pseuds/EdgeLaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel died that day in Zurich. </p><p>If you ask him, he should have stayed dead and buried.</p><p>(Companion to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7500624/chapters/17049126">Compromised</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be read separate or along-side [Compromised](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7500624/chapters/17049126). It happens in roughly the same time frame, though Gabe loses more time in the hospital than Jack does. Either way, This chronicles the 6 years Gabe is on his own, left to his own devices and with the fact that he has come back from the dead in ways he never wanted to. There's a lot of emotion there and interesting body horror stuff going on that interests me, so AWAAAY WE GO.
> 
> PS: Translation notes are at the bottom. Hopefully it's easy to understand without them in first reading through; like hearing one side of a phone conversation. I gave it a read to make sure it wasn't weird but if you need help, just check the bottom notes!

He was pulled out of that never-ending darkness unceremoniously.

It was painful. It was terrible.  It was... _unnecessary_.

He opened his eyes as he opened his mouth, an unholy scream bursting out of the lungs that newly drew breath once again. He heard the cacophony of beeps, of frantic life signs, of shouts, of a snarl that he only vaguely registered as his own. He was assaulted by light, colors, smells -- all of it clawed at him, disorientating his senses. He saw a flash of a sad, tired face, long blonde hair, and a voice registering far away in the white noise of his mind. He knew she had a name but he couldn’t remember it then; it never registered through the fog of his mind. Instead, the sight of her just caused his vision to redden around the edges, an all-consuming _rage_ capturing his his whole body as he reached out, clawing to her face, trying despite the blinding pain of _everything_ to destroy those sad eyes, those set lips, those locks of hair…

The needle went in. He hardly noticed the prick. Before his body could process, metabolize, fight back... he was gone. The red dissolved to black and he knew no more.

\-----

_He dreamed of a man; a man with a pretty face, flaxen hair, and an easy smile. He felt like he should know him, like he should have a name to this beautiful man, but nothing came. He couldn't see his eyes; it was as if someone had covered them, hooded them, scratched them out with a pencil. It made him uneasy, it made him feel angry; he rushed the man, his confusion making him reckless. He heard words spill from that perfect mouth but they were muffled as if under water, his coat billowing out around him like an inky blue poison._

_It was wrong, all wrong. This man wasn’t ethereal; more like a shadow, ready to swallow him whole._

_The eyeless, perfect, nameless man reached out, his smile toothy, a lying mask._

_He turned and ran, his heart hurting, his body aching._

_He could not face that soulless man._

_He could not drown today._

\----

He came to once more. It wasn't as violent but it was just as painful as his first arrival. Blinking hurt. Breathing hurt. Hearing hurt. Moving hurt. _Living_ hurt.

_Why was he alive again?_

He turned his head, seeing again the sweet face of that woman watching him, eyes working to focus on hers. Her fingers reached out and grabbed his chin and it _burned_ like hellfire, causing him to flinched and hiss. It was like there was a demon hiding underneath that angelic face.

His eyes unfocused; the red tint returned. The pain morphed to anger which quickly grew to an unquenching rage. He contorted, tensed, thrashed, grabbed.

His hand found its mark on her forearm. He snarled like an animal, squeezing, wanting nothing more than to crush the arm that dared hold him.

Under his fingers he felt more than heard the satisfying crunch. He saw her perfect mask crack and blanche. The tears that welled in those tired blue eyes felt like a personal victory.

Another pinch. Another drop into the waiting abyss.

Laughter, dark and humorless, filled his ears.

It was his own.

\------

_He always saw him in his dreams. It was as if he was a ghost he could not rid himself of, who followed no matter where he ran. His mind was full of him, full of muffled words, of that perfect face, of that dark blue patronizing coat._

_He hated that he couldn't see those eyes. He could never see those eyes. The eyes held the name he couldn't remember, the name he didn't_ want _to remember. But his heart remembered and his heart ached and his body yearned and he couldn't understand why he hated him so much, why he feared him so much._

_He couldn’t remember why he loved him so much._

_The encounters always ended with words he could hardly hear, didn't understand, but this time it was different. This time, before running away, gripped with a terror he could not place, there were words that called out, coming from a mouth on a nameless face with no eyes._

_“What are you doing here?”_

\-----

His eyes felt heavy. He could feel the fever of his body, feel the pain of it, the burning of his limbs. He focused on the woman, the angel, her head in her hands, whispering words he barely caught, barely understood.

“ _Helden sterben nicht, Helden sterben nicht…_ ”

She repeated the words, over and over, in fast repetition. A personal prayer, fitting for a false angel.

She didn't look at him, didn't register his arrival or his subsequent departure.

As he fell back under, he wondered his own personal prayer.

_Why am I alive again?_

\-----

_The perfect man shouldn't know the language he now spoke._

_It was_ his _language, the language of his father, of his mother. It belonged to him and he shared it sparingly and he knew that flawless man didn't speak_ this. _The man shouldn't understand the words coming out of his mouth, flowing over those beautiful lips as if he was a practiced speaker. He knew this man didn’t know the words he spoke and it itched him, his perfect diction, his perfect accent. Those were not his words to use and they felt beautifully abused rolling from his shining tongue and thin lips.  It felt like a sickness and each word breathed out made his hair stand on end, made his body ache in a way that had nothing to do with pain._

 _“_ _¿Qué haces aquí?_ _” the man asked him. He was sitting on a bench, that eyeless face watching him, that terrible smile turned to him. His hands rested on his knees._

_He knew he shouldn't sit. His body screamed at him to run the other way, to not be pulled into the trap._

_Something compelled him, however, and he sat anyway._

_In response to the question, he shrugged, preparing his response carefully, his cool composure belying the_ _adrenaline running under his skin._

 _“I should ask you the same thing,” he offered back. As soon as the words left him though, he was left feeling defiled. Why was he replying in English? He had wanted to respond in Spanish-- had_ planned _on it, even._

_He tried to respond in Spanish. He couldn't._

_The unease in his chest only grew but he did his best not to show it._

_The perfect man smiled._

_“_ _Estoy aquí porque tienes que acordarte._ _”_

_“I need to remember? Remember what, exactly?”_

_“_ _Cómo vivir._ _”_

\------

He was back with a start. His breath gasped into him as he broke the surface, chest heaving, body surging. It was dark. The red tinged his sight. The beeping of machinery filled his ears. He turned his head.

No pretty mask greeted him.

He was alone. Alone with machines and small lights and darkness and...and...

Tubes.

He was filled with _tubes_.

There was a tube in his mouth, in his nose. There were wires attached to his skin, tubes running into veins, fluid packets surrounding him, hanging ominously- a horrible, curious audience hovering over the mess of the man below them.

And suddenly it was like he in a different place and a different time. A different room that was too bright, with a different audience and a different purpose for the tubes in his body. He remembered needles and fluids and his head reeling and his veins popping and god it was like being burned from the inside out.

He heard more than felt his heartbeat jump, dragging him back to the present. He was instantly hyper-aware; everything was suddenly an unwanted insect, crawling over his body. His nails messily raked it all out - needles, spikes, tubes, wires. He choked again and then yanked the tube out of his lungs, tasting the blood that came with it pool at the back of his throat. He hardly noticed the damage though; nothing mattered but the feeling of crawling out of his own skin, of his panic, of his overwhelming need to get out of this place as soon as possible.

Everything hurt. Everything burned and boiled and blistered.

His world was tinged red. He didn't know why. He just knew he was pulling himself out of the bed, his body working on autopilot. Every movement hurt; he could feel bones grinding against each other and he gritted his teeth, tasting the blood from ripping his throat. It only served to push him further.

He hurt. He was bleeding. He was still _alive_.

_(Of course I am alive. Why wouldn't I be?)_

He crashed through gurneys, through machinery, through anything in his way. His hands became claws, weapons for destroying whatever resisted him. He was faintly aware of an alarm blaring above him, of people in the distance yelling, headed his direction.

The red deepened and his lungs filled with the growl of the animal he had become.

The first one he punched clean in the jaw. The crunch was sickening; he drank up the sound, the feeling of his opponent falling under his grip.

The next three weren't as easy. They jumped him, wrestled him, yelled as he thrashed, a wild thing. He did not want to go back.

He never wanted to see those tubes in him again.

A woman's voice, clear and perfect like a prayer, called out over everything. He could hear it over every sound, every creak, over the music of his own heart beat and the grit of his bones pushing each other into dust.

“ _Gabriel!”_

Something in him broke and slowed to a crawl. She had used _his name_ and the power of it pulled him completely apart.

The blackness came, enveloping him in a different embrace. The agony was greater than anything he had ever known as he dissolved, his scream cut off as his throat was no more. It was too much, _too much,_ and he willed himself to flee, to come back together, to stop the wind in his ears, the suffering in his limbs -- but they weren't limbs anymore they were something _different_ and terrible and horrible and _not human_. The ringing in his ears coalesced into a screech as his body reformed whole and away from his attackers. He had barely gone 3 feet, but he could see the fear on their faces, the confusion and pain there that was undoubtedly reflected in his own.

He coughed. He choked. He tasted blood as he doubled over and in on himself, his body forgetting all of its functions. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't swallow; all he could do was try his damnedest to clear his chest. A hand covered his mouth, the hacking of his lungs consuming his whole body.

Something wet and thick seeped through his fingers. He looked down, the blood dark and oozing and almost _too_ coagulated and…

It _was_ blood, right? It had to be blood, _it had to be blood_ and vitriol but the scent of it wasn't sharp and coppery. It was like decay and death and all of the things that shouldn't be in him. He was still alive, wasn’t he?

_Wasn’t he?_

His breathing came out in ragged gasps. A distraught, sad, tired face swam into view. He couldn't focus, couldn't do anything.

_Why am I alive again?_

\----

 _“_ _¿Por qué estás aquí?_ _”_

_The perfect man was waiting again, with his all-wrong face and his too-perfect Spanish. He wasn't smiling this time. He was frowning. Or was it neutral? He couldn’t tell anymore, his expression a shifting blur. It finally settled on a bloodied face, deep gashes crisscrossing, leaving long glowing trails that flowed freely, staining his mouth and coat and hands._

_His stomach roiled. He wanted to be sick._

_He remembered this is a dream and people don't get sick in dreams. They just feel sick. They just feel aroused. They just feel and feel even when they aren’t supposed to._

_“I'm trying to remember.”_

_“_ _¿Qué estás tratando de recordar?”_

_“I’m trying to remember why I hate you so much.”_

_A laugh echoed around him like an embrace. It held no humor and fell flat, like a dead hand._

_His stomach lurched unpleasantly at the sound and shifted, uneasy. He wanted to run but felt planted, stuck dealing with this man he wanted nothing to do with anymore._

_God, he hated him. If only he knew why._

_“_ _No es a mí a quien odias, pendejo. Te odias a ti mismo._ _”_

_“Join the club, buddy. I came to terms with hating myself a long time ago. I need to remember why I hate you so you’ll leave me the hell alone already.”_

_That eyeless face, the sockets where light refused to be reflected, turned to him. He felt a gaze pierce through him even if he couldn't see it. He took a step back, away from that face he knew but didn't recognize_.

 _“_ _No me iré hasta que recuerdes._ _”_

_“It would be a lot easier to remember if you’d just tell me what I’m supposed to be remembering!”_

_The face shifted, then went back to perfect, the mask unmarred, uncracked, undestroyed._

_“_ _Moriste. Tienes que recordar cómo vivir.”_

\-----

His eyes opened and he sat upright.

He was still in that white bed. The machinery still beeped out vital signs next to him. Other than that, everything was unnaturally still  and unnervingly white. His chest tightened and he steeled himself a quick look around.

He was in a room. An isolated box that more like a sterile cage.

His dreams were white and he couldn’t stop from wondering if this wasn’t a dream too. He wondered if everything before had ever even happened, or if it all was just a sick trick his mind was playing on him.

He took a conscious breath and wondered on the way his lungs burned. It wasn’t a feeling he recognized and it made him uneasy.

“Good morning, Gabriel.”

His head turned, listening. The sound came not from someone in the room, but over an intercom. Turning on the bed, he trained his eyes slowly on the dark window to his right. He scowled at it and didn’t respond. He knew that voice was on the other side and wanted nothing to do with it.

He looked at his arms; in the light, he could see that his skin was a few shades too light, a few tints too pale. The hue was off. He didn’t understand why, and he didn't like that he didn't understand why.

He also didn’t like that the tubes and wires were back. They itched at him, biting under his skin. His lungs burned.

_Why am I even awake?_

He was so tired. He didn’t want this blinding, sterile white. He didn’t want these wires. He didn’t want this pain and this piss-poor excuse for an existence. He didn’t want that goddamn angelic voice over the radio, calling him by a name she had no right to say.

“How are you feeling today?”

The sound of the intercom ground at his ears and he hated it. He wanted to find the speaker and destroy it. He didn’t want to talk to her and refused to respond. She seemed to think he _would_ respond, because when she didn’t say anything else, he assumed she was waiting on him. But he wasn’t playing that game. He knew you needed two to tango and she wasn’t who he wanted to dance with, not by a long shot.

When no response came, he sighed deep, rolling over and away from the window. The tubes tugged painfully at his skin and he wanted nothing more than to pull them out and scratch them away. Today though, he just felt too tired. He hugged his body, arms wrapping around himself, willing himself to get comfortable. Moving made him ache and he hated it.

God, he was so _tired_.

“Gabriel please, I need you to stay with me.”

Her words did nothing but make him flinch and pull himself into a fetal position. He kept his eyes shut, determined to ignore the white walls that spoke words he didn’t want to hear. He let out a shuddering breath, feeling the heat of it escape between his teeth. God, he burned and his mind was too tired try to make sense of it.

_Why  am I awake again? It'd be so much easier to…_

_“_ Gabriel.”

His name again. Just hearing it made him simmer with irritation.

He was no angel. He wished she would stop calling him one.

“I need you to remember.”

The words rang clear in his mind, a sense of déjà vu settling in his chest. He sat upright quickly, muscles tensing, breath fast, hair on end. He spun wildly to stare hard at the dark window, grimacing. However, when he thought he’d only see himself, he instead found himself face to face with that perfect, horrible man.

Those empty, hooded eyes, stared back at him unseeing. The smile was easy, misleading, and he felt the rage bubble up. He opened his lips, ready to speak.

The coil of his body undid itself.

He lept from the bed, tubes and wires breaking, needles sticking in his skin, but he didn't care. He needed to destroy that face, the one that haunted him, that refused to show his eyes. The one he would never be rid of. He heard a yell, heard an alarm beeping, thought he heard his name but it wasn't his name anymore. They had no right to say it and it held no power over him.

A fist smashed into the glass, shattering that face he hated so much.

_Why did he hate it so much?_

He felt his fist crumple on impact, but didn't care. When his fingers broke, he used his palm, wanting nothing more than to break the face for looking at him so smugly. There was more yelling but it didn’t register because it didn’t matter and he just wanted it to _shut up and fuck off already!_ He feels like those words may have come out of his mouth, erupting along with his rage, but it didn't sound like him. It sounded like a tortured voice that was singed and destroyed and was only now remembering how to speak.

The blood wept from his hands and the glass bit at his palm but the window didn't yield. Strong hands appeared out of nowhere, pulling him away.

As they dragged him back, he glimpsed that face he tried to break. He immediately wished he hadn’t looked, his entire recoiling, a wave of nausea washing over him.

It wasn’t a perfect face; it was the complete opposite. It was ravaged, it was sallow, it was blistered and bruised as blood ( _was it blood? Did blood run and clump and coil and burn like that?)_ dripped from the mouth that he only belatedly realized was his own.

His own face. His own reflection. Broken.

It was too much.

A male voice - so familiar, so sad, so gruff - whispered in his head.

_What happened to you, Gabriel Reyes?_

_\----_

_He was there waiting for him again, he knew he was there waiting for him again. However, he was so different, he took a step back, surprised._

_The perfect man wasn't perfect anymore._

_He was broken, bloody, war-worn. He was weary, scowling, hardened. He could see the light color of grey spreading from his temples. He was old. Just another soldier._

_And yet he couldn’t help but see this imperfect man as unendingly beautiful. Before he could push it down he felt the heat rise up, coloring his cheeks and settling in his stomach._

_God help him he hated the man all the more for it._

_“Did you remember yet?”_

_He blinked. He could see his eyes this time. They were sharp and blue and full of fire. He could hear the words, in the language they should always be. The language the soldier was born with._

_“Why did you never listen to me,” he told that soldier, his voice full of the tears that refused to fall. “If you did, we wouldn’t have-_ You _wouldn't have--”_

_The soldier just cocked his head. The simple motion made his chest burn with nostalgia._

_“You died, Gabriel. Not me.”_

_“You don't know that.”_

_“Don’t I? I only know what you know, after all.”_

_“Then you know how much I hate you right now.”_

_“If you know how much you hate me then what are you doing here?”_

_The question was repeated as it always was. He ground his teeth in annoyance, irritated with the soldier’s tauntings. He knew full well he didn’t have an answer to that question. So he replied with his own._

_“Why the hell am I alive again?”_

_His own question was a plea, a beg. He had to understand what this constant loop was for, why he kept waking up just to go under again. Why he fought when everything hurt so much._

_The soldier’s face remained unchanged. He said nothing, but it didn't matter._

_His eyes held all the answers._

_\---_

He woke up.

It was fairly undramatic compared to his other moments of brief consciousness. He didn't jerk, he didn't sit up and he didn't run. He just lay there, staring at the white ceiling. Monitors beeped softly; the sound wasn't as abrasive as before. His limbs still ached and his lungs still burned, but not in the same way. When he coughed, it wasn’t a choke.

So he just breathed in and out and woke up.

“Angela.”

A shift next to him caused his head to turn. She was there; her face was tired but held no fear of him. He noted her wrapped arm and realized belatedly that he felt no remorse regarding it.

When he looked at her and their gazes met, she sat up, a gasp leaving her. Her genuine surprise didn't go unnoticed.

He wasn't here for her though. Even if she had brought him back, she wasn't why he was alive.

He licked his lips. He noted the dryness of his mouth and decided to keep it short.

“Angela, _where is Jack?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes, once again offered by my lovely linguist buddy, Prince (who is a native Spanish speaker):
> 
> ¿Qué haces aquí? = What are you doing here?
> 
> Estoy aquí porque tienes que acordarte. = I'm here because you need to remember.
> 
> Cómo vivir. = How to be alive.
> 
> ¿Por qué estás aquí? = Why are you here?
> 
> ¿Qué estás tratando de recordar? = What are you trying to remember?
> 
> No es a mí a quien odias, pendejo. Te odias a ti mismo. = You don't hate me, asshöle. You hate yourself.
> 
> No me iré hasta que recuerdes. = I'll never leave. Not until you remember.
> 
> Moriste. Tienes que recordar cómo vivir. = You died. You need to remember how to live.
> 
> THERE WON'T BE AS MUCH SPANISH IN LATER CHAPTERS I SWEAR. I didn't think I even had that much intended for this chapter but woof.
> 
> Also German:
> 
> helden sterben nicht = Heroes never die.


	2. Washing Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s always been your problem, Angela. You never learned that there are things out there that are worse than death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Mercy's perspective. I know these are about Jack and Gabe, but sprinkling in other perspectives is something I want to do in both of their stories. Mercy helps to make the transition easier and more interesting for Gabe's story, and it was fun to explore her motives and personality. Hopefully it's as enjoyable to read as it was to write.
> 
> Note: Old readers, I cleaned up chapter 1! The themes are all the same, I just fixed a lot of wording that didn't sit right with me. Feel free to reread and give feedback, I live for it.

“Ziegler, what the HELL!”

Gabriel Reyes didn’t have the authorization to be in her operating room, wasn’t _clean_ enough to be in her operating room, and definitely didn't have the expertise to be in her operating room. Yet here he was, bursting in loudly, causing her to look up from her work and onto his rage-twisted face. The surgical mask she wore barely hid her scowl as tired blue met burning, furious brown.

“You are jeopardizing my entire operation, Gabriel, so whatever you have a problem with, if you could just quietly wait outside--”

“Don’t give me that shit, Ziegler, I’ve been waiting for six hours already and you should be happy Morrison was able to convince me to wait that long because trust me, I was just as livid _then_ as I am _now._ ”

Angela was only half-listening as the Blackwatch commander growled and hissed at her, sounding more like an angry dog than a coherent person. She tried her damndest to focus on the human being on the table in front of her, mostly covered by a sheet to keep things clean. Even with how angry he was, Angela typically found Reyes’ emotions easily dismissible. However, like a stubborn bulldog, Reyes was here and he refused to let her ignore him any further.

“Hey, Angela, are you even listening? We need to talk. Now. And I don’t give a shit about the boy on the op table, and I’m not leaving this room until you come with me.”

Angela cast daggers at Reyes’ face before huffing, stepping away from the operation she had buried herself in for… Lord in Heaven, how many hours had it been now? She glanced at the clock and winced. She quickly turned to her second-in-command, pointedly avoiding Gabe’s glowering stare.

“Sampson, you’re well-versed in this procedure. Can you keep him stable and continue forward while I talk to the commander for a moment?” When her second doctor confirmed that he could indeed handle it, she turned her attention to Gabriel, her features as hard and stiff as his was furious.

“Give me five minutes to clean up,” she said simply, gesturing to her blood-stained gloves. “And then I’ll meet you in the waiting room. Can you manage that, _Commander_?” He huffed out a yes, turning on his heavily booted heel and throwing himself out into the hallway. As soon as he left, Angela let out a breath she had no idea she had been holding. It was silent in the OR for a while, save for the heart monitor steadily beating out the vitals for the person on the table. Finally, Sampson’s scoff brought them all back.

“Good to see Commander Reyes is as charming as ever.”

It wasn’t long before Angela was cleaned up and blood-free, walking evenly out towards a still-agitated Gabriel Reyes. He was pacing around the waiting room, scaring most of the other residents with his intimidating size and dark disposition. As soon as he spotted her, he stalked over, bringing a hand up to continue his rant. She was faster; her hand shot up, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Let’s take this outside, Gabe. You’re scaring the families of my clients.”

“Fine, but you’re not getting away from what I have to say to you,” he said gruffly, complying. They were both silent as they left the waiting room, taking the elevator down towards the main foyer. Neither of them talked; Angela stood with perfect posture, while Reyes spent the time leaning in the corner, arms folded and scowl in place. He looked as tired as she felt, and she couldn’t blame him. Her main patient was someone he had brought back from a long mission, and if he truly was that mad at her, he had probably slept little since arriving back on base. Not even Jack could calm him when he got into a rage these days.

They stepped out back of the facility and Reyes proved he was nothing if not predictable. As soon as they were alone he wheeled on her, his emotions boiling over and exploding all at once.

“You have no right to be doing what you’re doing to that boy, Ziegler, no matter what he fucking said to you, you have _no right_ to cheat death like this!” She watched him evenly, frowning slightly. Her lack of a response seemed to just make him angrier, a string of Spanish expletives leaving his lips.

“I don’t know what you mean, Reyes. The boy agreed to our terms and I am doing my job to keep him alive as best as pos-”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Ziegler?!” He paced, pulling the beanie off his head and tugging at the curled mess of his hair. “He’s a guinea pig experiment for the UN to get their greedy little paws on and do whatever the fuck they want with! I know this -- you have _got_ to be smart enough to know this!”

“I don’t care what the UN or Overwatch wants with him, Gabriel. He’s dying and he requested to live. I am only doing my best with my orders given.”

“Fucking hell, of course he wants to live, he’s just a _kid_. What kid gets beaten to death-”

“ _Near_ death-” she corrected evenly. He snapped to her, pausing his furious pacing, his fist gripping his arm as if he was debating on putting it through her skull. Angela just leveled him with an even stare, and his moment passed. It always did.

“Don’t be fucking cute with me. He has no idea what he’s agreeing to. You’re destroying his life, he’s going to be in pain -- fucking hell he’s going to be _miserable_ , Angela.”

“At least he will be _alive_ , Gabriel. He’ll have another to chance to make things right, to try again to-”

“To make things right? _What_ things right? I already interrogated the boy on the way here. He has nothing to do with his family’s business, he’s just the privileged little kid who got what he wanted because his parents had a good gig going, no matter how shitty it was. He can’t help us with the Shimada problem. He doesn’t have any regrets.”

“He has his brother.”

At this, Gabriel laughed -- really, truly, laughed. It was a dark chuckle that spat out and devolved into hysterics as he doubled over, catching his breath. Angela held her ground, thanking her lucky stars her nanobots kept her emotions so level. If not, she may have struck the soldier and told him to get a grip -- instead she patiently waited, checking her clock as she did so. After a moment, Reyes finally had the breath to respond.

“Right, yes. He ‘has his brother’”. He threw his fingers up for air quotes just to get the point across. “The guy who was so mad, he almost killed him with his bare hands. You’re asking Abel to come back to make things right with Cain.” His dark gaze pierced hers, scars deepening in the harsh outside light. “All you’re doing is putting the rock in the other hand and saying ‘go for it’.”

“It appears he has no animosity towards his brother, regardless of the… _circumstances_ that the boy-”

“Angela, we both know he’s going to become a living weapon for Overwatch.”

She shut her mouth at that, fixing Gabriel with a level stare. The muscle in her jaw jumped as she breathed deep, doing her best to keep herself steady. She knew her nanos were working overtime to keep her hormones from fluctuating too greatly.

“You do not know that for sure, Reyes,” she replied softly, almost as a warning. His head cocked towards her, and he replied just as lowly, just as dangerously.

“You sure about that? You forget that it’s my _job_ to know these things, Ziegler.”

“Have you told Jack?”

A laugh barked out of him, sharp and painful.

“You really think _Morrison_ can do anything about this? If he could, he would have stopped it before it even started.”

There was a bitterness to Gabriel’s words there, a wound that was freshly picked that she had no power to sew up. She eyed him carefully before side-stepping that topic, going back to the one at hand.

“The boy will still live, Gabriel. Weapon or not, he will live, and when he does, he’ll have the choice to decide for himself. Until then, I will not allow him to die.”

Reyes just stared back, his dark eyes burning with the anger that was now well below the surface once again.

“That’s always been your problem, Angela. You never learned that there are things out there that are worse than death.”

And with that, Gabriel turned and stalked off, leaving Angela to process everything he had told her and some of the things he hadn't.

 

\-------------

 

Angela was pulled out of her memory from someone saying her name and turning the water off. She looked over to see Sampson’s face, considering her carefully. His hand was on the faucet and she looked down at her own palms, wet and clear and soapless. She blinked once before mechanically shaking her hands to free them of any lingering moisture. In a motion fully pulled from muscle memory, she reached for the towel dispenser, wiping herself dry.

“Sampson, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there. What can I do for you?”

Her most trusted doctor fixed the Swiss woman with an incredulous stare. “What you can do for me, Ms. Ziegler, is take a break. Lie down. You've been at this for almost a week now without stopping.”

She blinked at him again before averting her gaze, a smile pulling at her lips. “Oh, I'm fine, truly. My physiology keeps me from-”

“You just spent 10 straight minutes with your hand under running water and spent two not even realizing I was standing next to you.”

“Oh,” was her simple reply. She couldn't think of anything else to say. Her brain was still a million miles away, remembering a scene that felt more like a dream now than something she had actually lived through. It was like another life, one she would never have again.

She vaguely wondered at what point that old life had died and when this crazy sort of purgatory had begun.

“Perhaps, instead of being like Lady Macbeth and standing over a sink half awake, you lie down for a while.” Angela studied the man for a moment, seeing the concern on his face. He had always shown more emotion than she had, had aged more than she had in the years since Genji's cyberization. But that was to be expected. Her nanomachines kept her looking young and feeling young. They had kept her emotions in check, her demeanor even and logical. He had always refused such treatment, and she had always wondered why.

“Yes, I suppose that may be for the best,” she said with an easy smile. She had not slept for a week, her biology keeping her going even when she should have rested long ago. She wouldn't need to rest long for the machines in her to get her back to 100%. “Please, keep a careful eye on our guest, and let me know if anything changes.”

“Of course,” he said, “though I'm not sure if anything is _going_ to change.” Angela watched as he turned and walked off, a small frown playing on her lips. She then straightened herself, walking out the opposite door, heading off towards the infirmary’s sleeping ward. She knew when she got there, though, she wouldn't be doing much sleeping at all.

_“Angela, where is Jack?”_

She ran a hand over her face as she entered the ward, sitting down on the nearest cot. Against her better judgement, her patient's question was one she left unanswered. Instead, she had cracked a smile, had _laughed,_ had cried, had let her emotions get the better of her. The man on the bed - the man who, until those words were uttered, she hadn't been wholly sure was, in fact, _Gabriel_ _Reyes_ \- watched her carefully, his brow knitting in confusion. She had to fight the urge to hug him as the tears fell, instead opting to grip the fabric of her gown.

For so long, she thought she had failed. She thought she had failed, and here he was looking at her like she was fucking crazy and god if that didn't make the relief crash over her like a wave.

“ _Gott sei Dank,_ it’s you,” she had said, breathless. This, however, was not the response Gabriel had expected. His eyes widened while something like fear or anger bubbled behind those dark brown irises.

_“What the fuck did you do to me, Ziegler?”_

She had to fight her emotions then, stabilize herself, telling - _convincing -_ him that she would explain later, that right now he needed to rest and to get food and take a break. He had told her he didn't want to rest anymore, that he felt fine, that he needed to know where Morrison was as he struggled to prop himself up. He certainly looked better, but the walls had ears and eyes and she pointedly told him they would talk _later_ and that was enough for the message to get across. He had scowled, laid back down, and she had left to collect her thoughts, wash her hands, and subsequently get lost in her memories.

She still wasn't sure if the man in that room - hooked up to dozens of machines and IVs - was indeed Gabriel Reyes. She had tests upon tests to run, she had questions upon questions to ask, and the worst part was that she had to be careful and choose each word with precision. She sat there, her mind working overtime. She realized belatedly her hands were trembling; she clasped them together, wishing she was still working them under the water. In truth, she didn't need to wash her hands anymore; medical advancements had made such precautions obsolete, her nanotechnology cleaning her skin more thoroughly than any soap ever could. There was just something meditative about washing her hands and it helped to ground her and prep her in a way that a nanoscrub had never been able to.

She didn't sleep. She knew she should, but she didn't. In a way, she didn't need to;  her body was a medical marvel itself these days, with a stamina unmatched even by enhanced individuals like Jack and Gabriel. So instead of resting, she sat on that cot in the dark and waited, turning her hands over themselves. She could only wait, only bide her time. After a few hours contemplation, she checked her watch. As if taking a cue she nodded to herself, stood, and silently left the sleeping ward behind.

She made her way back to Gabriel’s room. It was late; the staff was tired. Anyone she saw she talked to, giving them an easy smile and an even easier dismissal. Most were grateful for the break and left swiftly. After being holed up in this facility for nearly a week, she knew most, if not all of them, would be happy to leave to spend the night in their own beds. It didn't take much convincing to clear the place out.

Sampson, however, proved to be the most stubborn out of all of them.

She found him dozing in the chair opposite of the one-way window they used to observe Gabriel. The monitors all showed stable life signs, beeping out a rhythm as the man in the chair leaned on an arm, the book in the other hand slipping as his fingers grew more limp. When Angela entered the room, however, he jumped awake, the book falling from his hand, head turning wildly to see who was there. She had smiled softly to him and he relaxed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Head on home, Sampson, I'm giving the staff a break.”

He blinked at her blearily before shaking his head, turning the chair to face Gabriel on his bed. The aforementioned man appeared to be awake, closely observing his fingertips. “No thanks, that's kind of you, Doctor, but you should have at least one other person here. Just in case.”

“Gabriel is fine, and I can handle my own. I am trained in arms, as you well know.”

“He broke your ulna just by grabbing your arm.” It was true; during one of Gabriel's moments of fitful waking, his body had reached out, gripping her arm and breaking it with little effort. That was the only moment she had ever felt fear around Gabriel -- and it was the first moment she had wondered if _Gabriel_ was actually inside the body before her. He hadn't looked like Gabriel; it had been wild, red eyes relishing her pain in a way she had never seen on the man's face in life, and the following subsequent laughter had chilled her to her core. Every moment after she had been more cautious.

But that had been before the breakthrough. Now, she could afford to be risky.

“I'm sure I'll be fine this time around, Sampson. I know Gabriel better than you do, and I can handle him. _Ich habe keine Angst.”_

He frowned at the last line, knowing that when she pulled out the German, it signaled the end of a conversation. It was a way to tell him in no short terms she would not be losing this battle as she fixed him with a stern stare. After a moment, he sighed. A small “fine, _in Ordnung_ ” escaped him and he stood up, moving to the door. He gave her a final look: she held her ground, lifting her chin.

“If anything happens…” he started, but she just nodded.

“The concern is noted, Sampson,” she said steadily. Finally, with one look around and a hand over his face, he turned and left, moving for the exit elevator. She watched him go until she knew he was truly gone, then sprang into action.

Immediately, she turned off all surveillance, all recording. She cut the lines to the phone, to the internet; her heart pounded in her throat as the adrenaline filled her so fast her body couldn't get rid of it in time. The thrill of fight or flight made her hands shake, but it didn't matter. She was a trained medical professional, after all. A smile tugged at her lips as her steady work made sure she would be well and truly alone. Finally, it was all set. Only the lights and the monitors still stayed up, keeping tabs on the patient’s vitals.

It was just her and the man named Gabriel Reyes.

She steeled herself, took a breath, and walked confidently into his room.

It was quiet; the walls muffled most sounds. He turned to look at her as she entered, his brow knitting into its typical scowl. His eyes never left hers. She noted the red mingling with the dark brown of his irises, how the color had begun to return to his skin and hair. She thought she saw a smoke trail leave a scar; a blink and it was gone, as if it never existed.

She sat down. They faced each other, the air heavy between them.

“What’s up, doc,” he said, a small amount of humor coloring his words. His voice felt ragged and stretched.

“We are alone, Reyes. I can speak freely, and so can you.”

“Oh, good,” he said, relaxing and leaning back on his pillow. “You know how paranoid I've gotten over the years. Fuck you, by the way. Since I can speak freely and all.”

“I feel I may deserve that one, this time.”

“Only this time?” He scoffed. “Cute. But you really _do_ deserve it this time, Mercy. This was a total cunt move.”

She stiffened at the harsh curse flung at her but didn't let it affect her any deeper than that.

“Mind specifying what move you're referring to?”

“Really? How about bringing me back like I asked for it? Or fucking _begged_ for it?”

She blinked at him once, twice.

“What exactly do you remember, Gabriel?”

It was his to turn stiffen, his turn to look away, to grab the sheets.

“ _Where’s Jack_ , Angela?” He shot back, deflecting her question with one of his own, the one she had yet to answer. His voice was gruff, coated with an emotion she couldn't place. “And don't fucking lie to me, _don't_ or I'll know and I'll just break your other arm for fucking trying me.”

“You won't break my other arm, Gabriel.”

“Just answer the damn question, Angela.”

She sat back in her seat, studying him carefully. His body looked sound, but there were weak spots and cracks. She wondered idly on how the nanomachines created to reconstruct his body were doing.

“I don't know”, she said plainly. She truly didn't. When she had found Gabriel’s body, it had been carefully placed and still warm. She had worked fast then, not stopping to look for the man who would have so delicately handled Gabe’s body. If she hadn't acted as fast as she had, she would have lost the man and destroyed any chances of a full resuscitation. “I haven't found him.”

Gabriel cursed under his breath, a slip of Spanish on his tongue. “He fucking left me there.”

The angered response startled her.

“I don't think it was like that, Gabriel.”

“No, Angela, he fucking found me dead and he left me there and fucking ran. Jack's not a coward but he's not stupid and he's sure as fuck not _dead._ Never thought he’d…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Never mind Jack right now,” she said evenly. She reached out to touch his arm, trying to comfort him, but when she touched him, it was like a furnace. His skin was hot; it felt like it was boiling underneath. They both jerked away from the contact; Gabriel regarded her with contained fury while she furrowed her brow in concern. “...I've spoken with the media. As far as the world is concerned, both you and Jack are still buried at Zurich. And once the Petras Act is enacted-”

“What? Petras Act?”

Right. He had died and been asleep for a week.

“UN ordained. The Petras Act is making Overwatch activities illegal. Most of our lower ranks have already been quietly let go and us older folks are trying to figure out what to…”

She trailed off as Gabriel started laughing. It started out as a low chuckle but grew into a loud reverberating bark, broken and painful as he clutched his side, devolving into a coughing fit. Her brow knitted together, watching him carefully, eyeing any vitals that would alert her if his lung collapsed from the effort.

“Hell, that's the best thing you've told me all day, Angela. I've been telling Jack for _years_ that he needed to hang up the jacket, but the UN wouldn't let him. Now that their pretty show dog is down and their biggest headache went with him...well.” He threw his arms up, a grin plastered on his face. “Show’s over.”

She turned her hands unconsciously in her lap and said nothing to refute him. He had mentioned many times to Jack and Ana that he felt the organization was collapsing on itself,  which she only knew because the two had told her during their delirious, drug-induced hospital stays. They both spoke of Gabriel's growing paranoia, and how much they were torn between believing him and dismissing him.

And then, Amelie happened, and Gerard ended up dead. Ana didn't return from the mission, announced by a distraught Jack to be KIA. And then Reinhardt’s retirement, which he only resented, he reminded her constantly in angry German. And then Genji left with an existential crisis. And then Lena had almost died and almost lost her mind.

She had to agree that it was definitely for the best that Overwatch was no more.

“There's only one thing left to do now.” There was a gleeful growl from the bed and she looked up, realizing belatedly she had once again gotten lost in her thoughts. Gabriel’s eyes burned and she squinted. They almost appeared to actually be glowing, and a trail of thin smoke blew off of the scars that littered his face.

“Gabriel…? Are you alright?” Next to her, a monitor beeped threateningly, showing that Gabriel’s vitals were jumping. Blood pressure spiking, heart rate climibing. He gripped the sheets and coughed out a laugh.

“Never better, Doc. Never better. But god, my head hurts. Tell those monitors to shut the fuck up, would you?” With a casual motion, he pulled the wires out of his arm, off of his chest. The monitors flat lined, droning out a dull sound before Gabriel brought out a fist, smashing into the machinery. Immediately the sound stopped but Angela didn’t - she lept out to him, pulling a gun from her side. She put a hand on his chest, trying to push him down, gun pointed at him.

He _boiled_ underneath her; it felt sweltering under her palm. She gasped, wincing, refusing to move her hand from his chest or the gun from his face, determined to keep him in the bed. It was as if he was running a high fever, but he wasn't sweating, he wasn't even registering how much his skin burned. His edges blurred; thin smoky tendrils left his skin and the room filled with the smell of charcoal.

In a swift movement, he knocked the gun aside and placed a palm on her neck. Her skin felt like it would blister under his heat as he squeezed gently, a cough choking out. His burning eyes met hers and he considered her for a moment. As he did, a strange sensation crawled over her skin; it was as if the energy of her body was leaving her, little by little, and not because of the lack of oxygen. Her eyes closed as his widened, and he immediately dropped her, letting her fall to her knees next to the gun. The energy surged back into her and she gasped, rubbing her neck as she looked up at him. He was staring at his hand carefully, before flicking his eyes back to her and pulling himself up to his feet.

“Gabe...what are you doing? Where are you going?”

He considered her words for a moment before a grin split his face. “Well, those fuckers thought they could kill me. It’s time I make them regret that decision.”

In a swift movement, faster than she could track, his fist collided with the side of her head. The pain shot through her and she was gone before she even hit the floor.

When she came to, Sampson was above her, looking worried, shaking her awake. She was distantly aware of an alarm blaring, of panicked voices. It all sounded miles away. Blearily she looked around, head throbbing. Sampson was saying something but she hardly registered it, her ears full of cotton.

“Where is he,” she finally gasped out, pulling herself up. Sampson held out a hand for her, but she refused to take it. As a response to her question, he just stared, shaking his head.

“He's gone. The entire facility is being checked but…”

He didn't need to finish. She understood; Gabriel had slipped away from them.

“ _Mein Gott_ , what have I done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German Translations, courtesy of Some-sort-of-fan on tumblr!
> 
> Gott sei Dank = Thank God
> 
> Ich habe keine Angst = I'm not afraid
> 
> in Ordnung = a grumpy way of saying okay or alright
> 
> Mein Gott = My God


	3. Wasting Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His body was the battlefield this time, and it was determined on turning his life into a literal Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took along time to write but I'm very glad it's done. After this, this will take a break because I'll be working on my big bang fic, so until then, enjoy this chapter. Many thanks to [ConstanceComment](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/pseuds/ConstanceComment) and the reaper76 discord for all their beta work and encouragement.

He should have asked more questions.

It wasn’t because he hated going into a situation blind; Gabriel Reyes had worked most of his life in covert ops, after all. He was used to walking into a mission with limited information, used to being forced to feel his way through with the hopes of leaving with more men alive than dead. He was used to thinking on his feet, he was used to improvising, had done more than his fair share of MacGyver-style jerry rigging to get a job done. It was one of his many talents: being able to quickly read a situation and react accordingly. Whenever his brain felt like waxing poetic, he’d even entertain that he was an artist and the battlefield was his blank canvas. It would lay out pristine before him: just like the trepidation a painter felt before marring the white expanse in front of them, he couldn’t help but feel that moment of excitement - of _uncertainty_ \- before plunging onto the scene. After the initial stroke, there was never any hesitation -- only the calm assurance of each perfect move, of each beautifully executed step. His men and his guns were the brushes which spread the bodies and paint, leaving behind a macabre story; an artistically executed tragic end. He didn’t need a set plan or all the answers to make his paintings. He just needed to know enough to feel it out and get the job done.

This, however, wasn’t just another mission he could dance his way through. This was a wholly different kind of problem that he had no insight into, no way of understanding and no way of controlling.

His body was the battlefield this time, and it was determined on turning his life into a literal Hell.

A coughing fit pulls Gabriel back out of his thoughts and into the present. Whatever was stuck in his throat is wetly hacked from his lungs, its wet, blackened form looking like liquid charcoal and smelling faintly of a chemical fire. He grimaces as it dissolves before his eyes, all smoke and heat curling away into the atmosphere. It’s disgusting and his brain is far too tired to coherently begin asking _why_ this was happening,instead jumping straight to ‘irritated acceptance.’ As if he just had a cold, instead of something far more sinister. Sure; this certainly _could be_ life-threatening, but it could also just as easily be something his body just _did_ now. Either way, his brain was in no mood to do anything more than be mildly interested in his body’s current antics. If Gabriel was going to die here, he was going to die here. The grave tried to claim him once. He was simply amused to see it try and claim him again.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling the skin flaking where it touched his split lips, the whites of his teeth showing even when his mouth was closed. He looked at his hand carefully; the skin was patchy, flaky, and losing color, the tips of his fingers deteriorating into wisps to be swept away on the wind. A small chuckle bubbled out of him as he watched, more of a punctuated cough than a true laugh.

 _I just need to get a handle on this_. A stupid joke, he thought, curling his smoking fingers into a fist, but he laughed at himself all the more for it. Might as well; he was the only one around for miles to appreciate his small stroke of comedic gold.

Plus, this whole predicament was fucked up to the point of absolute hilarity. Might as well have a laugh about it.

If only he had just asked Angela more questions. About himself, about what she had done to bring him back. Drill her about the lengths she went to to save him, the possibility of malpractice. Instead, he had cared more about Jack while laying on that hospital bed, had cared more about getting _revenge_. Had cared more about the figurative burning pit of anger now settled in his stomach, instead of the literal one. Had run off to collect answers and wound up with less than when he started.

Five days. It had been five days and ten hours since he had left Angela on the floor of that underground Overwatch medical bay. It had been five days of foot travel, of fitful half-sleep, of a hunger that had nothing to do with lack of food. Two days of trying to be a civilian, of trying to fly under the radar. Three days of staying away from civilization because his body had started to turn against him.

 

_It had been easy to nick the clothes, to blend in with the citizens on the outskirts of Schaffhausen, a city near the border on Germany’s side. The hoodie was easy and he wore it like an old calling card. Jeans were less conspicuous than the thin scrub pants Angela had outfitted him with, and sneakers had been an easy find and a lucky fit. He still looked a mess, though, so renting a quiet room for the night wasn't sounding like a bad idea. He reached into a pocket and counted the handful of paper and coin he pulled out. It wasn't a lot - just some fistfuls nicked from the underground med bay on his way out - and he was trying to be frugal, but he still smelled like death and a hot shower was tempting. It would be money well spent._

_Despite the warmth of the sun and the bright day, Gabriel kept his hood up. He looked as gross as he felt, the fabric around his face acting like a shield for wandering eyes. Besides, he didn't need people getting a good look at him, recognition drawn from the old Overwatch posters that still littered the streets. Still, Gabe had to talk to someone, if just to have them point out the nearest place to get something to eat and take a load off. He dropped the hood, mussing his too-long hair, and started glancing between the old-world buildings, uncertainty clearly showing on his features. His jaw worried in his mouth, his eyes darted, his foot tapped; he didn't have to try hard to sell the part of 'lost tourist’. When he noticed a local watching him curiously, he met their eyes and knew the act had paid off. A hand wave and an easy, tentative lope brought him up to the man in question._

_“Hi, uh, Guten Tag! Ah, I'm a little--”_

_“Ah, lost?” the man finished for him, accent coloring his English and crows feet crinkling his eyes warmly. “Don’t worry about it, what can I do for you, sir?”_

_“I'm looking for the closest hotel, just a cheap place to stay the night.” Gabe winced at the sound of his own voice -- far too hoarse to sound anything like himself. He licked his lips as the man watched him curiously. “D’you know of a good place nearby?”_

_The man gave him a once over, then cast his eyes around. The road wasn't heavily populated, despite the day being as nice as it was. Nobody paid them any mind. The man’s voice lowered regardless when he next addressed Gabriel._

_“Look, I can tell you are not a tourist, but I won't pry you with questions. A man has his secrets. But if you need a place to stay…”_

_He had lifted a finger to point down the road but his sentence trailed off as he watched Gabriel closer. Gabriel could feel a cold dread settle in his stomach, couldn't stop the nervous jitter of his leg in response._

_“Is something the matter?”_

_“Mein Gott…” the man breathed out, reaching out a hand to swat at something on Gabe’s shoulder. Instinctively, Gabriel jerked away, too many years of training making his muscle memory jump into action. As his shoulder swung away, something thin and black curled into his peripheral, and he gasped. The action didn't help: a burning sensation met his tongue and a tendril of smoke escaped his lips._

_They both stood there, stunned. Gabriel was frozen by the sharp, acrid smell, the darkness curling away into the daylight. Blood pounded in his ears, terrified.  He dared to meet the man’s eyes -- the man had blanched, but met Gabriel look for look._

_“Welche Art von Dämon sind Sie…” the local muttered out. The air raced back into his lungs when Gabriel reached out, grabbing his shoulder far faster than any normal man. Gabriel met the man with a hard stare, hoping his eyes didn’t betray the fear he was trying so valiantly to swallow down._

_“Don’t ask. Please. Let a man keep his secrets.”_

_With that, he had fled the city limits as fast as he could. The man didn't follow, didn’t raise a ruckus. Not that Gabriel stayed long enough to know. He and his secrets were gone, even if the smoke lingered long after._

 

Gabriel took a moment to lift himself to his feet. He was unsteady, he could tell, his knees wavering like the rest of him as they tried desperately to hold his weight. He peered around at the dark trees surrounding him, the German landscape feeling like a fairytale. There were no landmarks at eye level, just the position of the sun and the way his shadow fell telling him he wasn’t walking in circles. Even then, it was easy to get lost, to get sucked into the spell. It was a pull ( _an ache_ ) deep inside him to just lay down on the ground, soak it all up, become one with the wood. The very thought of it was enough for his cells to feel like they were slipping apart, prompting Gabriel to close his mind around himself like a steel trap. It was a jarring experience; he wasn’t used to fighting his body every waking moment. As tiring as it was, the shift in concentration was enough to pull him sharply out of his dazed reverie, adrenaline refreshing his senses. Something deep in his chest burned out its protest, the smoke flowing from his mouth in waves. Gabriel coughed. Gabriel cursed. Gabriel kept moving as best he could.

He should have asked more questions.

Whatever Angela had done to bring him back from the edge, Gabriel certainly wouldn’t call it ‘new and improved.’ Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he could call it _living_ , if his current state was anything to go by. His body burned. It itched. It ached. It waged war on his psyche. It ate and was never satisfied.

His body smoked. A constant stream of acrid flavor, he exhaled it out, hot on his breath and smelling of death and charcoal and burnt flesh. He was a furnace internal, his core constantly writhing like the dragon’s pit. He wouldn’t be surprised if when he coughed, flames came out; the red coals weren't that dramatic, however, and remained contained inside, burning underneath a cool exterior. He was always either too hot or too cold, the fluctuations tugging him in unpleasant directions. Under such abuse, his scars were the first to break. Like angry fault lines shifting, they split and cracked to reveal glowing embers. He would only ever see what was under the skin for a moment before the blood in his veins cauterized, closed the self-inflicted wound, a smoky trail the only evidence left behind.

He knew it should hurt more than it did. He didn’t know if it was because his nerves were jacked to shit from the revival, or if they didn’t see this process as indicative of pain. Instead everything throbbed; more the angry insistent pressure of a healing wound than the sharp twist of a fresh cut.  It made his stomach turn: made him want to pick and scratch. It was disgusting.  It was horrifying.

It was utterly _fascinating,_ if he was being truthful.

Gabriel didn’t know how, but he knew that as much as his body destroyed itself, it also _repaired_ itself flawlessly. He hardly noticed it; it was very subtle. If he watched his skin and the smoke long enough, he would see it break down... to just to coalesce and build back up again. It was as if his body had a mind of its own, completely separate from his will. Sure, he could move his body and control it just like always, but he had no idea how to do _anything_ about these tiny micro instances where cell upon cell, his body slowly but surely knitted itself back together again. As far as Gabriel was aware, he had just as much power over this as he did when it came to his cells dying and dividing and fighting disease when he lived in another life, in another body. Here and now though, it was still something he mused over - if he had to concentrate to keep himself together, could he concentrate hard enough to separate himself as well?

It wasn’t an idea he was ready to confront. Not yet. Instead, he set it aside, focusing his manual movements. He walked through the forest, winding his way between the ancient trunks. It was just him, his noisy thoughts, his angry body. A phantom even in the daylight.

He breathed in. He breathed out.

And Gabriel Reyes trailed away and disappeared amongst the trees.

 

\---

 

Eichenwalde, Germany.

An old villa: small but standing for millennia, it was as traditional Germany as a town could get. Buildings of brick, stone, and wood lined the streets, looking like the cover to a collection of Brothers Grimm tales. The large castle atop the hill completed the look, making the village visible even from the heavy woods surrounding it. It was picturesque, iconic and memorable from a distance.

A stark contrast to the large city visible in the distance along the village's eastern wall, even in the after-rain fog and gloom.

Stuttgart was a glittering metropolis; full of people, cutting-edge technology, boasting both omnic and human civilians. It had grown substantially during the economic boom before the first Omnic Crisis, and thanks to the war efforts, it stayed that way for years to come. It was shining, meticulous, magnificent: a crown jewel that withstood all assault.

Eichenwalde, left to rot among the woods outside of Stuttgart's light, was nothing like that.

The villa was nothing more than a skeleton now. A casualty of the omnic war, a sacrifice to keep its glittering sister city safe. The streets were populated with old propaganda, abandoned cars, long-dead bastion war units, and the snapshots of a battle since fought. Gone were the families that had once taken to the streets, the pub denizens, the loyal customers. Gone were the Crusaders and their giant formidable knight-like armor, protecting the town and surrounding area. All of that was no more; left to become just another relic of the omnic war.

Nothing stirred now but the slow reclamation of nature. Wet from the recent rain, the villa was quiet, sound dampened as the air hung thick with moisture. Weeds and flowers soaked up the moisture, spreading and slowly covering the mess left so long ago. One didn't have too look too deep under the pristine blanket to see the tragedy underneath. This site had been a victory for Germany during the Crisis, but at the cost of complete and utter abandonment. One of the largest battles of the war in Europe, the win had turned the tide of the war for the whole continent. It was a sacrifice worth making, as far as the German government was concerned.

Wouldn’t know it by the deserted streets and crumbling buildings.

Perhaps it was this sad state of a place, this forgotten piece of living history, that drew Gabriel Reyes here. Both relics of a war, both heroes in their own right. Both scarred and dead to the outside world, they had both been quickly forgotten in place of shinier, newer faces worth seeing; worth saving. Both abandoned and left to their fates.

Even here, he didn't feel like he belonged. The city's corpse was being repurposed. His only smoked and burned and was remade just to decay.

Still, despite how much he tells himself he shouldn't be here, in this place of memory and heartache, Gabriel finds himself standing in front of the local pub, hoodie up and looking half-drowned. The abandoned city may have been crumbling, but it still held strong; there were plenty of rooftops here he could put over his head. The pub was an easy place to start; it was large and had a good location. Regardless of the weather, however, he didn't move to go inside. Part of him felt like he was entering hallowed ground.

The pub was the local bar, as well as a microbrewery: _Brauerei Mittagskrug,_ it was named. They had their own special house draft, one that Reinhardt had loved, had ordered specifically, had praised loudly. Gabriel remembers him commenting on this place, how when he was stationed here with the Crusaders, this was his main haunt. The town had loved him, and he had loved the town. Gabriel can't help but remember when he fell to his knees, his one good eye tortured and clouded with tears, as the news reports had flooded in. His men, his team; the Crusaders had held the Omnics here, had died fighting valiantly without him. The EMP counterstrike had detonated while the team was still in Eichenwalde, distracting the omnics. It had been a solid plan. The town had been evacuated beforehand. A sacrifice worth making. Heroic. A monument was built in Stuttgart for their efforts.

Dead and buried, the Crusaders were never spoken of again.

Gabriel had come to Eichenwalde before, once upon a time. He and Jack, Ana and Torbjörn, Liao and of course, Reinhardt. Checking on the area after the attack had been covert back then; the world didn’t know about Overwatch, and so they had gone in as a cleanup instead of a frontal strike. Gabriel remembers the sharp smell of the gunsmoke, the littered bodies that needed cleaning, identifying. It wasn't a fun trip for anyone, but the intel recovered was worth it.

For the most part, Reinhardt had been… _quiet._ While the rest of them assessed the damage, Reinhardt had made his way through the town gingerly, had taken his helmet off, rested his giant hammer reverently on the side of the pub. It had rained that day, too. Reinhardt had blamed the weather for his wet face, for his heavy eyes. He didn't need to lie to the group, but they had all let him have his moment. They let him tell all the stories later that night, of his comrades and their bravery. They let him say goodbye, in his own way.

Today, much like that day long ago, Gabe stood before the brewery tired, wet, scowling, and silent. It had been another day of travel for him to get here and his body wasn’t happy about the recent downpour. Hood up, the smoke still billowed out. It had gotten heavier over the course of the day, as if his body was showing its anger in the most visible way it knew how to. It churned and boiled and he had to mentally buckle down every moment he was conscious. It was as if his cells were an angry dog he had to keep tethered at all times: if his concentration slipped even a fraction, he started falling apart. It was incredibly unpleasant, like forcing opposing magnets to touch. As his body shuddered, threatening to escape him, he defied it. Teeth grinding to ash, he pulled his hoodie closer to him and entered the German pub.

It was relatively drier inside, but only just. A large hole in the ceiling left water dripping down near the bar, light filtering through and feeding the greenery that had planted itself there. The place smelled of old wet wood and mildew, newly sharpened from the rain. Towards the back of the building the roof was still whole and looked drier - if not a bit dustier. As he wound his way around the empty wooden tables and chairs, taking care not to step on a large discarded tankard, he was surprised to see an old hologram, sitting idly on a long table. Gabriel blinked, ignoring the way skin tugged around his eyes as he approached, intrigued by this bit of running technology. He was cautious at first -- working tech could mean another person was nearby -- until he saw what it was; the map of the Crusader’s last stand. The map had a solar panel attached; if Gabriel followed its tilt, he came face to face with the large bay windows at the back of the brewery. They faced east; continuous morning light was all the map needed to stay powered for centuries.

He had seen this map before, once upon a time. Him and Jack, studying it and copying it for Overwatch purposes. They had used the schematics in later pushes against the omnics; it proved to be a winning strategy. Jack had considered it a lucky find. Back then, the man who had been powering the map had perished on the table, and so he had never shut it down. The bastion that had killed him stood dead and smoking not 20 feet away; it had come through the hole in the ceiling, attacked, been attacked in turn, then had shut down once the EMP had gone off and disabled Stuttgart’s god program. Gungnir, it had called itself, if Gabriel recalled correctly. Jack had found it fitting; the spear of Odin himself, pointed right at the heart of Germany with its attack. Jack had also joked that’s why it lost. _“It wasn’t a god, Gabe; just the god’s spear. And spears can break with just the right amount of pressure.”_

Gabriel sighed out, ignoring the black shape his breath took. Slowly, his hand searched under the table, finding the switch for the map. After 25 years, it finally flickered down and died. Forgiving darkness greeted his burning eyes. Without the hum of the ancient plans, he could pick up other sounds; the soft patter of the rain picking back up outside. The wood of the building settling down. The pipes groaning in response to the change in atmosphere.

It was quiet. He was alone. And he was so damn tired.

He let his concentration slip. He had only a moment to register the angry swarm under his clothes, vibrating and buzzing and _dispersing,_ before -

 

_He dreamt of Jack. Or at least, he thought he was dreaming. It was like he was in another reality, living in another life. It was like his other dreams; he could see a man that resembled Jack but he was older, angrier. His eyes were hard diamonds as they peered towards him, focusing on him. That gaze had always pierced right through him, as if his entire soul was being examined, as if those glacial blue eyes didn’t see flesh at all. Jack's eyes studied him as if he was really there, instead of meeting in a strange dreamscape. Gabriel inhaled; he could smell Jack on the air, like sandalwood and sweat and pulse emissions. Ugly lines ran along Jack's face, pulling at the skin, dragging into a characteristic frown. He heard Jack sigh, fists clenching and unclenching around a strip of black cloth. Jack's beautiful gaze flicked away, then back. Gabriel frowned, looking from Jack’s hands to his face, watching as he struggled for focus._

_“What are you doing here.” The line came with the sharp taste of déjà vu._

_“Don’t like what you see, old man?” he told his dream, as if such an amused jab towards his own thoughts would elicit a satisfactory response._

_“I shouldn’t be seeing you at all,” was all that Gabriel got back. Gabriel blinked and smirked._

_“Well, if our relationship isn’t going anywhere I guess I’ll just-”_

_A hand had reached for Gabriel as he half turned, whispering through his right arm. Gabe stopped; Jack stared. Jack looked to his hand, fist clenching and unclenching. Then he laughed, a short huffed breath._

_“Right. ‘Course I can’t touch you.”_

_Gabriel cocked his head at him, a playful move that made Jack chuckle again. It was a nice sound, even if a bit rough. It was like a terrible memory, wishful thinking of a time long lost to them. Gabriel selfishly wanted to pull another one out of him, as if the sound of his laughter alone was enough to bring his shattered body back together again._

_“What, think you can touch a dream?” Gabriel shrugged out, grinning lopsidedly. Jack just shook his head, looking away. God, he looked tired. Even in his head, the idiot didn’t get enough sleep._

_“Nah, but it’s worth a shot. You know me, always reaching for what isn’t mine.”_

_“Correction: you just reach for what you shouldn’t touch.”_

_Jack stiffened, steely. Gabriel swallowed; that may have been a bit far. His dream of Jack was just as sensitive as the real thing. For the last few years his quips had been harsher, cutting deeper. He blamed habit for the outburst and the apology followed was a knee-jerk reaction._

_“Sorry.”_

_“No, it’s…” Jack trailed off. His jaw worked furiously, his leg shaking. His leg had always done that. Gabriel commended his brain for having such a good copy of Jack, tucked away for fevered moments like this. “You’re right. You always were.”_

_Gabriel rolled his eyes. This dream was starting to get a bit too close to the real person for his liking. “I don’t need your self-martyrdom today, Jack. Just accept the apology for once.”_

_“Fine. Apology accepted.”_

_“Good. Now stop beating yourself up.” He paused there, planting his most crooked smile on his face. “Go beat someone else up instead.”_

_Jack laughed again, whole and true, and Gabriel’s wrecked soul sang in response. It was a stupid line to feed to a dream, but that laugh was worth it. It would always be worth it._

_“Yeah. Yeah, I just might.”_

 

Gabriel quite literally jolted himself awake.

He gasped, eyes flaring wide, arm flying out to catch himself as he tried to stop the sensation of whiplash. Blackened vision cleared to reveal the floor rising up to meet him. He hit it heavily, his body vibrating unpleasantly as it shifted and reoriented. Hot nausea assaulted him as he pushed himself up and he fought the rising bile in his throat. His ears were muffled to all but the sound of his own tinnitus; he swallowed rapidly in an effort to clear them. His fist flexing, he forced the sick feeling to fade away, having had enough of vomiting organs and tissue for one week. He settled back on his knees, head between his arms, waiting for his breath to even out. He counted the lines in the tile underneath his feet, calming the heartbeat thundering behind his temple.

He swallowed. His mouth felt like ash. He let his mind play catch up, tried to hold onto his fleeing dream. Damn it all, it had been a good one.

Somewhere to his left, he caught the soft sound of rustling followed by a muttered string of German curses.

Gabriel shot up, vertigo be damned, zeroing in on the disturbance. He caught movement in the corner, his sharp eyes missing nothing. In another time, another life, he may have thanked the SEP program for his enhanced night vision, his ability to pick up movement like a hawk. Now though, the moment’s focus brought him nothing but a headache in the contrasting light. He squinted; the edges of his vision hazing with undulating plumes of black.

“I know you’re there,” he tried to say evenly, but his voice was destroyed. It was as if sandpaper was rasping over his throat as he spoke, leaving his words gritty and dry. Instinctively, he reached a hand up to scratch at the itch, but stopped when his fingers trailed a gaping hole in his flesh where his throat should have been. He swallowed, feeling his trachea bob at the effort. He swayed, stilled his knees, vision blurring angrily for a moment.

 _Fuck._ How long had he been out? His thoughts were disjointed and he felt his body swirling angrily under the flimsy shell of his skin. The smoke rolled off in waves, partially obscuring himself.

From the shadowed corner, a tired voice responded, drawing his burning gaze.

“ _Der Todesengel._ Ah. I see, I see. Yes, I’m sorry. You just startled me, is all. I was sleeping.”  
  
It was a man. A man with a throat as wrecked as his, and a face as gnarled as the side of a knotted willow trunk. If he wasn’t old, he certainly looked it; unkempt beard and a shock of hair frame his face in wispy white, and his eyes were wide and unfocused. Glassy, even. It hit Gabriel that this man might just be blind, but it was hard to tell. He was staring straight at Gabriel, after all. Hidden under layers of frayed clothing, he looked tiny, struggling to hold himself up. Despite everything, he still had the piece of mind to brush himself off, as if the dust had settled while he rested.

“Ah, Sorry,” Gabriel returned, wishing his voice didn't sound like it had been burned with acid. “I didn’t think anyone else was in here.”

The man’s eyes crinkled, brows meeting where they drew together. If Gabe had to give it an expression, it would be a frown.

“What, you didn’t look before you landed?”

“What?”  
  
“You. Came in here all dramatic, smoke billowing, body falling out of it. Strange thing to see. Not the strangest though.”

“But I was in the brewery…”

“The brewery's down the road, _mein Freund_. Looks like you overshot.”

“Overshot…” Gabriel blinked and looked around. The man was right; he was no longer in the brewery, standing next to a holographic map, but instead he was within what appeared to be an old huntsman's shop. Where nature wasn't alive and encroaching, it was hanging dead and on display along the walls. Antlers and trophies riddled the room: compared to the other buildings in the area, this one was majorly intact. A good, dark place to hide that didn't leak. No wonder the other man had chosen it.

As he surveyed his surroundings, the old man shuffled, coughed, rearranged himself and his small pack of things. He had commandeered an old high-backed armchair, moth-eaten and frayed, as his go-to bedding. Gabriel watched him in open fascination, not sure what to make of this stranger he had landed in front of.

“Not to say I'm surprised to see you. Been thinking you’d come by sooner or later.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed, his eyes gleaming. He looks around again, before turning back to the man. He was far too calm for this unusual situation.

“What, so, you're not bothered by this situation at all?” Gabriel tried clearing his throat. He was only moderately successful. “Some English-speaking guy just floats into your space covered in black smoke and that's just an average day for you?”

The man had the gall to laugh. It was a painful wheezing sound, one that devolved into a coughing fit. Gabriel winced at the sound, watching him carefully, trying to get a handle on his own trembling body.

“I'd say it's an interesting day, most _wunderbar._ Nothing to be worried about though. Or bothered by.” The old man sat down heavily, patted the floor next to him. Gabriel looked at him, uncertain.

“You got a weird sense of humor for an old vagabond.”

“Well, in this day and age, it’s good to be a little weird, don't you think?” He patted the floor again. “Come, sit. You don't have to be shy.”

Gabriel Reyes weighed his options. He was not a stranger to odd situations. He was quite fond of them, really- made missions interesting when something out of the ordinary happened. He had fought and won a war against sentient AI. He had worked alongside a super-intelligent gorilla from the moon. He had trained a kid who was convinced he was a cowboy. All things considered, there were bigger oddities out there than a man whose body burned itself up from the inside out.

He gingerly made his way over to the man, eyeing him before taking a seat against the wall to his left. The man adjusted his things, waving off the smoke emanating from Gabriel's body. Gabriel grunted in response, tried to pull himself together.

“Sorry,” he said, not quite sure what he was sorry about. The man waved it off with another chuckle, which wheezed into another cough.

“Bah, don't be so apologetic, _Engel_. Not like you can help it.”

Gabriel blinked at him. He didn't really have a response to that. That seemed just fine to the man, who hummed as he rearranged his things. He only had a small duffle with him, but it was good enough. From it, he procured two chocolate bars. one of which he proffered to Gabriel. Not wanting to be rude, Gabriel carefully took it, which seemed to delight his newfound companion.

“Thanks,” he said, unsure of what to do with the candy. He really only took it out of courtesy; he wasn’t even sure if he could properly _eat_ right now. He watched the other man open his candy bar, the plastic crinkling noisily in the room.

“So, which one are you? What’s your name?”

“Which...?” Gabriel worked his jaw, considering the man’s earlier German. Again, he weighed his options.

“You first, old man,” Gabriel said finally, amusement coloring his words. The elder huffed out a laugh, yellow teeth flashing before he bit into his candy bar.

“Ah, that’s the game you’re going to play? I’m Achim.”

“Nice to meet you, Achim. I’m Gabriel.”  
  
Achim scoffed, but his features seemed to soften. “ _Der Botschafter_. Nice to meet you too. I’m a big fan.” He held out a hand, his smile easy. Gabriel hesitated, unsure the state of his body, if he would just pass through or…

He waited too long. Achim pouted, ready to pull his hand away. That was enough to shock Gabriel out of his hesitation and grabbed the hand, offering the best shake he could.

The effect of the contact was instantaneous. Something similar had happened when he had grabbed Angela, and he had desperately let go, scared of himself. Whatever had happened with Angela, this was so much worse. His cells detected the warmth of the body before them, instantly swarming the hand in a black smoke. The energy surge he received was so fast it made him feel heady, senses spinning. It was so much _more_ than he expected, and Gabriel found himself unable to let go. The cold fear of it all plummeted into his stomach. He wanted to scream out but he could only take in a sharp inhale.

Just as fast as it was started, the contact was severed. Achim let go of his hand and shook it, that soft smile still plastered on his face.

“ _Mein Gott,_ give me some time to enjoy this candy bar. I’m not ready to go just yet.”

Gabriel was still dealing with the shock to his system, the rush of sheer _energy_ that coursed through him, his cells vibrating harder than ever. He felt more awake than he had in days even as he battled to keep himself together, to keep everything under control.

“You're dying.”

He said it without thinking, without really realizing the words were leaving him. The energy flowing from Achim’s body had told him enough. He looked at his hand, noticed it was shaking. He brought the other to clasp it, running the fingers over each other. His right hand was in significantly better condition now, the left looking of ash and embers and smoke. It was a wonder he still had skin on that hand.

He had taken a piece of what little life Achim still had.

Gabriel panted. Next to him, Achim just grinned that easy grin, unaware of Gabriel’s existential crisis. He took another thoughtful bite of his candy. Gabriel could hear the faint crunch of nuts as the other man chewed, his patience overwhelming. Gabriel breathed in air and exhaled smoke.

He felt sick.

“ _Der_ _Tod ist nicht das Ende,”_ Achim said easily, letting out a breath himself. The wheeze was light, but Gabriel still caught it, eyeing him uneasily. “You know, I grew up in Eichenwalde, yeah? A young man, I helped bring the Crusaders up. It was tricky work, though. Experimental. I left for the city after Gungnir. Stuck in mechanics and war efforts after that - thought myself invincible back then, I suppose.” He sighed, set his head back. “Been terminal for 6 months now. Nobody left to mourn. So I’m here. Back home.”

“It was a beautiful place.”

“It still is,” Achim scoffed. The crinkle of the plastic in his hands was loud, a strange interruption in their conversation. “She is standing because she is stubborn. Because she is German.”

“Could say the same for you.”  
  
Another laugh. Another coughing fit. It was a bittersweet feeling; Gabriel was happy to make a dying man laugh, but didn’t want to cause him pain. He looked at him closely, unsure of what to say, what to offer. He kept his hands clasped in his lap. Gabriel looked up at the trophies, their empty eyes judging him from on high.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” he finally said softly. He turned to look at Achim, wasn’t surprised when he saw the man looking back. Achim then looked down, fiddled with the plastic wrapper.

“Just be here. It won’t be long. I…” He took a shaky breath. “The fox knows his time and he is not afraid to sleep. I will be ready to take your hand soon. Don’t wanna rush it.”

“Did it hurt?” Gabriel found himself asking, before he could help himself. “To take my hand?”

Achim was thoughtful before replying. “In all truth, Gabriel, after what I’ve been through, it felt like a relief.”

Gabriel worked his jaw. He had been a soldier; had watched men and women die in all sorts of ways. He had killed omnics, had killed terrorists, had killed soldiers just doing their job. But hardly ever did he have to witness a death so calm and so willing. He remembered his abuela passing, a lifetime ago. How she had smiled even though he had cried. He had held her hand then, until she was gone.

He managed a smile now. Achim smiled back.

It was enough.

“Let me know when, then. And I’ll take you with me.”

 

\----

 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there with Achim, just chatting and discussing. Gabriel listened to all he had to say; Achim didn’t ask for much in return. He didn’t ask questions about anything, just chatted. Chatted sometimes in English, sometimes in German. Gabriel did the best he could with the broken German he had at his disposal; Achim was amused by his terrible accent. But as the hours passed, Gabriel could see the man’s energy wane. His breathing became labored. He talked less. The silence lengthened.

Until. Finally.

Achim reached his left hand out, opened palmed. Gabriel looked at it, looked at Achim. His face was soft, with no trace of fear; of Gabriel, of what came next. 

“Don’t be scared. I’m not. _Ich bin bereit für den nächsten Schritt.”_

Gabriel softened his features as well. “If you’re ready.” He placed his hand overtop the palm offered.  
  
Achim nodded.

Then Achim breathed out and flowed into Gabriel.

Gabriel closed his eyes, feeling the energy flow into him. It hit him like a flood, all of his senses overloaded, his body assimilating and dissimilating faster than he could control. Achim passed and Gabriel’s body absorbed what was left behind, giving life back to the broken shell he carried. It was as if Achim was a part of him now, in some weird way. His life, his memories, his emotions, his essence, all entering Gabriel in a rush. The destroyed blackness of his core was expelled out of his mouth, his nose, his eyes, his every pore. His cells remade themselves in an instant, as if they had never been torn apart in the first place. His breath came in and out, natural as can be.

He was whole again. Normal. As if nothing dark was raging underneath his now-pristine skin, within his powerful body.

It was over faster than Gabriel expected it. He left go of Achim’s hand, gave him a cursory glance, only to look away again, a sob escaping him. God, it was so fucked up. He was so fucked up. His fist clutched at his knee, gripping it hard enough to bruise.

Achim’s body was drained. It had been instantly mummified through the process and yet, despite it all, the face was still at peace. As if it wasn’t just sucked dry by some fucked up version of whatever angel existed in Achim’s head.

His broken laugh felt like bile on his tongue.

 _“Der Todesengel.”_ Angel of Death. “Fuck.”

He supposed it was true enough, in a sick, self-degrading sort of way. Here he was, named after God’s messenger, ferrying death, feeling the life of someone else coursing in his veins.

Maybe it’s best he hadn’t asked Angela anything at all.

\----

Stuttgart had been easy enough to access. Gabriel mingled naturally with the crowd, was hardly looked at twice within the airport. Not a wisp left his body, his eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses as he idly chewed on a candy bar. _Normal_ , he told himself. He could do normal. Even if he was still hyper-aware of his body vibrating underneath his skin. Even if food only gave him a fraction of the regeneration he needed most of the time.

But it had been an old man’s favorite. A parting gift.

Gabriel may have been leaving, but he’d promised the small grave he’d be back to visit. He promised to remember.

Gabriel made it to the teller, tucking the empty wrapper in his back pocket. He pulled his temporary passport out of his backpack; one of many he had made and stashed away, just in case of a ‘fake-death’ scenario. Or whatever was close enough to _his_ scenario, anyway.

“Where to?” was the casual request from the worker, one that she probably asked a million times every day. He fancied a quick glance at the flights, looking for the one that would take him the furthest for the cheapest. That was the first order of things, after all; get out of dodge and away from Overwatch, from Angela. From Jack. From _everything._

No more questions. No more hesitation. He had all the information he needed.

The mission lay before him like a blank canvas.

“Next flight bound for Moscow, if you’ve still got it.”


End file.
